This video is cracking us up this morning over breakfast.

Things are better today, thanks. Hoofah.

The Evening Birds, The Lion Sleeps Tonight

This would be a good spot for me to put a review of “The Dark Knight,” the new Batman movie. Shaun and I went to see it on our date night (we try to go out every Thursday). I’d love to tell you about it, but I really can’t. It was loud…it was long…and my mind was elsewhere.

The theater was packed when we arrived, and we had to sit towards the front. We were about 8-10 rows back, not bad for arriving on time. We slid in between another couple, and a guy who was by himself.

Drunk.

And eating fried chicken.

Let me see if I can set this up a bit for you. When we first sat down, Shaun dropped his cell phone, and we couldn’t find it without up-ending everyone. We just figured we would get it when the movie was over. Minutes after the lights dim, I realize there are conflicting scents coming from my left. Alcohol, for one. Not a nice cabernet either. SWILL of some kind. And, oddly, fried chicken. It took me another minute to register, in the dark, that the chicken is just in this guy’s lap. No fast food bag, no styrofoam container. Just chicken. Romeo was ripping apart a greasy rooster leg next to me and sippin’ on gin and juice.

The missing cell phone prevented us from leaving early. I didn’t want to leave anyway! I wanted to enjoy my date night (damnit), take in the movie (damnit), and somehow not notice for (what seemed like) three hours that the guy next to me is hammered and hungry. And, he has opinions about the movie which he occasionally spits out at the screen between gulps.

I wondered if I was being tested somehow by the universe. The universe that knows I am a drunk myself and that I have “missed” a movie or two in my time. I couldn’t judge the guy, but rationally, I was glad I wasn’t him. This is where it is so cunning and powerful, though. This disease. I leaned over at some point and whispered to Shaun “next thing you know this guy will shit himself…just to top things off.” Tipsy chicken man poops his pants next to weary sober housewife, film at 11. This poor fella was dissheveled, he needed a shower, he was many drinks in, and who knows where the chicken came from.

I knew all of this. I would have told you I wanted to escape the smell of booze and I did not want a drink myself. But my brain? My brain did a double-take. I was preoccupied with what he might be drinking. Did he buy the large coke and pour it out only to put the alcohol in? Was there a mixed drink in his cup, or just straight whatever? Did he have more somewhere, or had he concocted this mix outside…in the restroom…on his way from wherever he came from?

Halfway through the movie I had to take a break. I went to the ladies’ room, said a quick prayer and burst into tears. By the time the movie ended, I was just furious. So angry. And I’m still mad.

I knew I would have struggles. I was waiting (did I mention this?) for that OHMYGODINEEDADRINK moment. I figured it would be over a nice dinner, when a beautifully deep glass of red wine went by on a tray. Or when the kids pushed my buttons, or the day was a-bit-too long, or something didn’t go my way.

Who knew that, when faced with Colonel Drunko Sanders, instead of thinking “Euw gross,” my limbic system would register “I wanna party with this guy. Bartender!”

After the movie, everyone filed out. We set about feeling around for Shaun’s cell phone under the seats. Sure enough, I came up with the prize. A near empty bottle of MD 20/20 from under my seat. I recoiled from it as if it were a rattler, and couldn’t get out of the theater fast enough.

There is a lot of booze in the world, people. A lot of pain. Lots of drunk folk. And one hoppin’ mad Mama that now just needs a good night’s sleep. I hope that guy’s evening ended up okay, or at least that he kept his chicken down.

I made it through another day sober. Holla!

And Batman? I dunno. I still can’t believe that guy left a bottle that wasn’t all the way empty.

Lou Reed, Take A Walk On The Wild Side

There was a great piece in the New York Times magazine yesterday about addiction, about parenthood, about the truth as each person sees it. I was riveted as I read it. You can also click around and see the author of the piece in little video clips — he’s just as good at speaking as he is at writing. He says,

“To be an addict is to be something of a cognitive acrobat. You spread versions of yourself around, giving each person the truth he or she needs — you need, actually — to keep them at a remove. Let’s stipulate that I do not have a good memory, having recklessly sautéed my brain in fistfuls of pharmaceutical spices. Beyond impairment, there may be no more unreliable narrator than an addict. Recovered or not, I am someone who used my mouth to constantly create one more opportunity to get high.”

I’ve noticed this since being home and talking to folks who didn’t know of my issues with alcohol before I went to Ashley. My acrobatics were legendary, albeit largely unrecognized. I wouldn’t have considered myself a liar about who I was, but lies of omission are still lies in most camps, right? There’s still no real reason to tell people that while they were watching “Grey’s Anatomy” or peeking in on their sleeping children, I was drinking mouthwash in my garage; or that while they were at the pool this summer with their family I was in rehab next to the Chesapeake Bay praying for the strength to come home. If I don’t keep it green, though, I end up back there.

The mental gymnastics became exhausting after a while — why not just come clean to get clean and own it all? I say bravo to David Carr, who accepts both the gritty and the great, and writes the hell out of both.

Emmylou Harris, Deeper Well

In the past week, I have heard of or from friends from Ashley who have returned home and are already struggling again with their drug of choice (alcohol, pills, crack, what-have-you). I heard a particularly difficult tale tonight.

This disease has us by the balls. The balls. When I heard this most recent story, my heart just sank. I imagined my friend being wrestled to the ground by a hard-faced, sweaty demon — like a gazelle in the jaws of a lion. I would kick the crap out of it if I could, but I can’t. I can only keep my own devil at bay, so I can be there for friends, for my family, for myself. It’s around the corner, plotting, drooling…whispering. I can feel it. Before bed tonight, I’ll just pelt the f*cker with prayer and do the same again tomorrow. And the next day. That’s all we can do.

Hang in there, warriors.

Morphine, Cure for Pain

My friend Christina talks about positive parenting and the beauty of saying yes to your child, whenever you reasonably can.

When I got home, I admit that I just wanted the cuddles to last and the mood to be light and I wanted to say yes, yes and yes again. Thankfully, both kids were amazing and patient and just glad to have me home. Beautiful.

The following quote says it better than I could…

“Yes, we can loll here for six more chapters, before — yes,
waffles, yes you can stay naked all day or until you think
you need clothes, yes to butter on the video popcorn today
and me beside you for not just the scary parts, then yes
to a rain-walk, yes, even to the culvert rushing water and
the long way home, yes to candles with dinner, yes to no
lettuce, yes, I’ll save the opera and switch to jazz, yes –
a bath bead? — take two. and yes I will sing the song, yes,
just this once, three times.” — Ellen Dore Watson

I looked at this photo every day I was away…it was taken on Mother’s Day just before I headed off on my…retreat. Can you imagine saying no to these two?

Patsy Cline, The Eyes Of A Child

Hi! Miss me?

I feel a bit like Rip Van Winkle — then again it feels like I left yesterday. Had a fairly profound experience the last 28-odd days. I just wanted to pop in here and say hello, and express my appreciation for all the support, prayers, positive vibes, letters, cards and flowers that I received while I was away. My sister said she thought I would get more mail in 28 days than I had in the last 28 years, and I think that proved to be true. I am spoiled with love — I have soft little fruit-bruises all over me from the places you all touched me. Thank you.

There’s no soft re-entry from such an adventure — so I am back in the thick of it. Forgive me if I don’t get right in touch with you — I am trying to ease in as much as possible. I can’t wait to see and talk to every one of you and squeeze you right back.

If you leave a comment here, that’s a sure way to hear back from me. How’ve you been?

Elton John, Your Song